door, and
I just lost it. I’d had enough of him, you know?’
Breathlessly, he paused, looking to me for approval. I nodded.
‘So I went downstairs and picked up the hammer from his tool box, which was out because he’d been putting up some shelves, I think. I wasn’t planning to bash his brains in, or
anything like that, although there were many times I could have done. It was just the first thing I found. I don’t know what I was going to do with it, I think I was just going to threaten
him with it so he’d leave Mum alone. Anyway, I went into the living room where they were and I held up the hammer and shouted, ‘If you touch my mum again I’ll hit you with
this!’ and he looked at me for a moment in shock, and I thought he was just going to walk out and . . .’ His voice tailed off.
He appeared white, shrunken, as if he was twelve again and back in that room.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. He didn’t look at me, his eyes were downcast.
‘So he’s staring at me, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and then he laughs and he walked towards me, really calmly, and wrestles the hammer out of my hand. I
crouch down, with my hands on my head, because I think he’s going to go for me with it, but he drops it and instead gives me a really hard punch in the stomach. And I’m lying on the
floor, I can’t breathe properly – I’m winded, you know – and he starts on Mum and there’s nothing I can do to help her. After that, it was like I’d unlocked
something in him. A few days later, I said something he didn’t like and he hit me again, on my arm this time, so it was black and blue for days. That’s when Mum had enough. I
can’t remember how long it took – a couple of weeks, maybe, she must have been sorting things out – but that’s when she took me and Ruth and we left Milton Keynes. Just got
up one morning, packed our bags and left. So there you go, now you know about my dad.’
He looked up at me and the light seemed to swim back into his eyes. ‘Do you see why I didn’t tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I smiled sympathetically, and hugged him. I was still unable to come up with any words that wouldn’t sound trite or plain stupid. ‘It’s OK,
Jack,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’ But inside my head, I was talking ten to the dozen. No wonder Jack never let himself get wound up, I thought. No wonder he seemed older than his
age. No wonder he hated fighting and would rather walk away and be called a chicken than be provoked. No wonder he did that martial art, which he explained was all about self-control and not
lashing out. No wonder he’d got so weirdly upset when Eric was misbehaving and I threatened to smack him, even though I hadn’t meant it. No wonder he seemed so perfect, because
he’d made himself perfect, so nothing could get to him, and so he wasn’t anything like his father.
‘It’s not something I like talking about,’ he said, although now he’d started he seemed unable to stop. ‘And for a while I couldn’t talk about it because Mum
was scared Dad would find us, so I didn’t even tell anyone who I really was or where I’d really come from. There’s something else I should tell you. My real name’s not Jack
Parmiter, that’s an old family name from way back that Mum picked. I’m Jack Mullins, which probably sounds better, but it’s
his
name, so he can keep it. We moved around a
lot at first, I had to keep going to different schools, making new friends, starting all over again. It was really hard. The reason we came here was partly because of Mum’s job and because
we’ve got some family here in north London, but also because he tracked us down again and started making trouble. There’s not a lot he can do now that I’m seventeen and
Ruthie’s fourteen. We don’t have to see him any more, like we did at first. He just likes to make us all feel uncomfortable. He thinks we belong to him. He’s like a
stalker.’
Jack looked exhausted, but
I just lost it. I’d had enough of him, you know?’
Breathlessly, he paused, looking to me for approval. I nodded.
‘So I went downstairs and picked up the hammer from his tool box, which was out because he’d been putting up some shelves, I think. I wasn’t planning to bash his brains in, or
anything like that, although there were many times I could have done. It was just the first thing I found. I don’t know what I was going to do with it, I think I was just going to threaten
him with it so he’d leave Mum alone. Anyway, I went into the living room where they were and I held up the hammer and shouted, ‘If you touch my mum again I’ll hit you with
this!’ and he looked at me for a moment in shock, and I thought he was just going to walk out and . . .’ His voice tailed off.
He appeared white, shrunken, as if he was twelve again and back in that room.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. He didn’t look at me, his eyes were downcast.
‘So he’s staring at me, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and then he laughs and he walked towards me, really calmly, and wrestles the hammer out of my hand. I
crouch down, with my hands on my head, because I think he’s going to go for me with it, but he drops it and instead gives me a really hard punch in the stomach. And I’m lying on the
floor, I can’t breathe properly – I’m winded, you know – and he starts on Mum and there’s nothing I can do to help her. After that, it was like I’d unlocked
something in him. A few days later, I said something he didn’t like and he hit me again, on my arm this time, so it was black and blue for days. That’s when Mum had enough. I
can’t remember how long it took – a couple of weeks, maybe, she must have been sorting things out – but that’s when she took me and Ruth and we left Milton Keynes. Just got
up one morning, packed our bags and left. So there you go, now you know about my dad.’
He looked up at me and the light seemed to swim back into his eyes. ‘Do you see why I didn’t tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I smiled sympathetically, and hugged him. I was still unable to come up with any words that wouldn’t sound trite or plain stupid. ‘It’s OK,
Jack,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’ But inside my head, I was talking ten to the dozen. No wonder Jack never let himself get wound up, I thought. No wonder he seemed older than his
age. No wonder he hated fighting and would rather walk away and be called a chicken than be provoked. No wonder he did that martial art, which he explained was all about self-control and not
lashing out. No wonder he’d got so weirdly upset when Eric was misbehaving and I threatened to smack him, even though I hadn’t meant it. No wonder he seemed so perfect, because
he’d made himself perfect, so nothing could get to him, and so he wasn’t anything like his father.
‘It’s not something I like talking about,’ he said, although now he’d started he seemed unable to stop. ‘And for a while I couldn’t talk about it because Mum
was scared Dad would find us, so I didn’t even tell anyone who I really was or where I’d really come from. There’s something else I should tell you. My real name’s not Jack
Parmiter, that’s an old family name from way back that Mum picked. I’m Jack Mullins, which probably sounds better, but it’s
his
name, so he can keep it. We moved around a
lot at first, I had to keep going to different schools, making new friends, starting all over again. It was really hard. The reason we came here was partly because of Mum’s job and because
we’ve got some family here in north London, but also because he tracked us down again and started making trouble. There’s not a lot he can do now that I’m seventeen and
Ruthie’s fourteen. We don’t have to see him any more, like we did at first. He just likes to make us all feel uncomfortable. He thinks we belong to him. He’s like a
stalker.’
Jack looked exhausted, but
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